


In Love and War

by Mindset



Series: In Love and War [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-01
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mindset/pseuds/Mindset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Love and War are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other.” (Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote.) </p><p>Sansa and Sandor have started a relationship, but life is not a song. Sansa must choose between her dreams and her responsibilities, while Sandor is caught between his long-awaited vengeance and a life he never thought possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Song of Steel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/242047) by [Egleriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Egleriel/pseuds/Egleriel). 



It was almost dark in her bedchamber, and so quiet now. Sansa breathed slowly, all warm and contented. But not at all sleepy, unfortunately. She rolled to face Sandor, and his arm tightened around her waist; though at least he was asleep, his head half-buried in the pillows. Between the wavering candlelight and her position, she could only see his good side. He seemed to be at peace, without the habitual scowl that usually marred his features, even in his dreams. It felt good to be the one who had caused that, or so she hoped.

Even at peace, Sandor’s face was still not quite what she would have called handsome. Plain, for certain — though if she wanted to be complimentary, she might say striking, mayhaps distinguished. There was a strong look of the First Men to him that she liked and had found a bit confusing in a Westerman, although his account of his Northern grandmother had clarified matters. Sansa lightly stroked his black hair, but his brow furrowed and she desisted, unwilling to disturb him.

For much of the past few days, Sansa had felt so pleased to see his features without the usual brooding anger. It was enchanting to see Sandor’s grey eyes shine with pride when speaking of the home of his childhood; and so thrilling to see his eyes blaze with open desire when he gazed at her. She wasn’t sure how long he had wanted her, almost certainly longer than she had wanted him — but now that his reserve and her shyness were gone, everything was much more pleasant. And pleasurable.

She shifted, feeling a slight ache inside. This second time had felt much better than her first — which had been so nice, really, if not for the day after — but he had taken a little less care with her. Sansa could still feel the marks his lips had left on her neck, and her wrists twinged a bit. Though during the moment, she hadn’t even noticed any pain, just the overwhelming passion… but now, it was like the traces of his fingers burned. _He’s just so strong, he doesn’t realize… he looked so guilty and angry with himself when I had to refuse him the past few nights._ At least tomorrow there wouldn’t be another excruciating horseback ride, now that they were here at last. Sandor’s home, her home for now.

The featherbed was soft and warm, so comfortable after all those weeks of bedrolls on hard cold ground. And her head was all fuzzy with wine and pleasure, and she felt so tired… but Sansa still felt sleep escaping her. Maybe it was that if she didn’t sleep, tomorrow would never come, and they could stay in this moment forever. For tomorrow, she would have to see the maester, and…

Sansa knew that she should be happy that this small keep even _had_ a maester — that she wouldn’t need to find a wise woman in the village or a woods witch out in the hills. This would be simple. Not a thing to worry about. No need to fear, when it was the opposite she should dread, what it would mean for her life, her hopes, her future noble marriage… to some high lord not of her choice, just like a filly bought and sold and ridden and bred… She closed her eyes, trying to shield away the light, trying to shield away the memories. But another drew unbidden to her mind, that of her argument with Sandor earlier that evening.

“Your sons _would_ be true knights,” Sansa whispered insistently, _“good_ men, like you,” and thought, _tall and strong, honorable and truthful, dark-haired and grey-eyed… just like…_ She clenched her eyelids tight while her nails dug into her palms, and she bit her lip so hard she could taste blood. Her breathing came fast and hard as she fought not to cry. Not to wake Sandor and bother him with her foolish imaginings.

 _Stupid, stupid little bird, little child who still believes in songs and dreams and things that cannot ever be… life isn’t a song, nothing could ever be allowed… and he doesn’t even_ want _…_ I _don’t want… can’t want… anything more than what we shared tonight._ Just Sandor’s strong hands and his fierce kisses and his rough voice whispering her name… that should be more than enough. More than almost anyone could ask for.

She turned away, wrapped her arms around herself, and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

It felt like only moments later when she woke to the sound of Sandor’s curse. But time must have passed, the candle was long cold, and light was coming through the window he stood by… wasn’t that the window she had watched the sunset from?

Sansa lifted her head. “Sandor?” she asked muzzily. “What is the matter?”

He glanced back at her, a rueful look on his face, and said, “Didn’t mean to wake you, little bird. Not to worry, but Lannisport’s aflame.”

She wasn’t _worried,_ but it did sound frightening. Lannisport was one of the largest cities in Westeros, why was it burning? She climbed out of bed to stand by him, taking a blanket with her to cover herself.

Sandor pointed at the flickering red-orange glow in the distance. The clouds reflected the light, making it seem brighter and closer than it must actually be. “Most like, the city’s being sacked. The maester said the krakens were reaving up and down the western coast, and Lannisport’s been attacked by them before, years ago. There should be a blockade in the harbor, but the longboats must have gotten past somehow.”

Sansa shivered, and hugged the coverlet tightly. “How far away is the city?”

“About half a day on a fast horse… a couple of days, if you have to walk.” Sandor added, “But the ironmen won’t go inland when they’ve all the plunder they want in the port itself.”

It was sweet of him to try to reassure her, but that wasn’t what she had been thinking of. “Oh, no, I was just remembering… the sky reminds me a bit of the night the Kingswood burned, the night Tyrion fired the riverfront.” She and Sandor had watched those flames together from near the top of the Red Keep. _Only cowards fight with fire,_ he had said. It had been just a few days before the Battle of the Blackwater, which was another memory altogether. She shrugged it off, and added, “But I suppose we’re much too far away for the smoke to bother us here.”

Sandor was very quiet then, as they gazed at the distant fires. The virulent sky lit the burned side of his face alarmingly, and his hands twitched. Finally he spoke, slowly and hesitant. “I scared you that night. I keep doing that. I’m…” And then he stopped. All she could hear was his rough, heavy breathing.

Was he still trying to apologize for their argument? She had already forgiven him. He had shouted and said nasty things, but it didn’t compare to that night, nor almost all of their encounters in King’s Landing. That night she had wanted to thank him for saving her from the mob, and he had laid his sword against her throat and been truly hateful. _Honest,_ he had said, but it seemed as if he were trying to rip apart all her beliefs. Yesterday all he had done was remind her there were subjects that still made him snap like a savage dog.

Which had been frightening, she had to admit. _He’s still the same man he was then,_ she tried to tell herself, _just as dangerous and cruel…_ but she couldn’t make herself believe it. He had looked so genuinely ashamed, after. In the years of their separation, something had tempered him. He was still rude, still seemed to enjoy pushing her limits, but the surprising gentleness he had shown her before was now much more obvious, and nearly unwavering. And back then, she had no idea what Sandor Clegane wanted of her. She had a better grasp of the matter now.

“Everything scared me in King’s Landing.” Sansa made herself reach out and take his hand, made herself turn her head and look at him, even as terrible as this light made him appear. There was the difference — Sandor’s eyes, no longer full of anger, but interested, abashed, and grateful. So grateful for any kind look or word or touch or kiss… this strong man, so vulnerable in her presence. “I’m not scared anymore.”

He responded with a grin much like he had given her earlier, a smile that made her want to smile shyly back, bite her lip, kiss him, all kinds of things. “You’re safe here, little bird,” he said. “Back to bed with you, now.” He picked her up in strong arms and carried her over to the bed, and laid her down gently. She expected him to climb in next to her, but was dismayed when he sat down and began to pull on his breeches.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“My bedroom, upstairs.” Sandor looked guilty, almost embarrassed, which made her frown. If anyone should be ashamed of their night of passion it should be her, and since she wasn’t bothered, why was he? But he continued, “I shouldn’t have slept here tonight, the servants will talk.”

“Sandor,” she huffed. Sansa knew her proprieties, but one might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. “Please don’t be foolish. If you had left immediately after we… after last night, you would have still spent enough time with me for _anyone_ to talk. The servants here aren’t stupid.”

Though wary and fearful. The scarred, silent chambermaid who had helped prepare her bath had also left bandages and salves, and had given her a look filled with such pity that it was disturbing. When Sansa had realized the intent and angrily said she wouldn’t need them, the girl had looked so surprised and disbelieving… just the memory of it was making her upset again. Everyone expected Sandor to be a monster like his brother or the depraved Mad Dog of Saltpans — they didn’t know her Hound, her protector, the man who would never hurt her.

Sansa sat up and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his broad back. He awkwardly patted her hand. “Don’t want to ruin your reputation, _my lady.”_

As always, he spoke that title like a jape, as frustrating to her as this strange reluctance. The more he resisted, the bolder she wanted to be. “I don’t have any reputation here, Sandor, nobody knows who I am.” Which might or might not protect her from the things that could be said, but still… if he just bedded her and left, she thought it would be far more damaging. Certainly to his reputation, if not hers. “For all they know, I am your lady in truth, and why shouldn’t the master of the keep spend the night in his lady’s chambers?” she asked softly.

At any moment Sansa expected him to flinch, to scowl like he had when she’d foolishly referred to the cloaks he’d given her… but he didn’t, and she went on a little more brightly. “Besides, with all our traveling, I’m afraid I’ve just become too accustomed to you lying near me, Sandor.” She hugged him again. “I’m not certain I could sleep well without you here.”

He turned and pulled her onto his lap and kissed her. She wiggled in delight. “Don’t think I could rest well without your pleasant company either,” he murmured. “If you’re really sure?” Sansa nodded and smiled, and he smirked, then laid her back down on the bed. “Though I’m not sleepy right now, little bird. I’ve a mind to make you sing for me again…”

 _Again?_ she thought, slightly panicked. _So soon?_ Although she realized she should have known that when she asked Sandor to stay with her longer, he wouldn’t think she meant just to _sleep_ with her.

But then his hands were at her wrists and his lips were on hers, and she kissed back eagerly, urgently.  His mouth slid down her throat, laying light kisses on the sore spots as he moved along her shoulder, then back up her jawline. He murmured her name and then his teeth nibbled at her earlobe, and she could only lie there whimpering, eyes half closed, feeling so good, so wanton… He was too strong to fight, not that she wanted to resist him now… she couldn’t resist this… he ran a rough hand down her body, and she arched her back and moaned.

If not that the glow coming through the window was merely orange, without the green of wildfire, it would be like that night of the battle of the Blackwater… but so _different…_ more like her dreams. She’d dreamed of this, of him… holding her down and stealing a kiss and a song… but no more, and leaving. She had never thought to see him again, but events had proven otherwise. And now, she was no longer afraid, not a child anymore, she needed this, needed him, needed to see his face, to meet his eyes…

And then a green flare did illuminate the room for a moment, and she froze in sudden terror, unable to catch her breath.

Sandor had frozen as well, his eyes wide and white. He released her and stumbled to the window, muttering, “What in seven hells…”

There was a quiet tapping on the door to her bedchamber. Sansa pulled the blankets tight around herself as Sandor cursed and reversed direction. He yanked the door open with a snarl, revealing a startled and nervous maester.

“Master, my apologies to you and the lady for disturbing you at this hour,” the man stuttered, “but there’s been a raven, with an urgent message.”

* * *

Sansa had just finished pulling her brown traveling dress over her head — it was a bit dirty, but the gown she had worn last night was ruined, and she had no others as yet — when Sandor came back into the bedchamber and thrust a parchment at her. He began to put on his tunic and boots as she read the letter, written in an unfamiliar, clumsy scrawl.

  
_Sandor — Sorry about the men I promised you, but they’ve been unavoidably detained. No doubt you can see the flames of Lannisport from your keep as well as I can from Casterly Rock. Normally I would not summon you for fire-fighting — but the ironmen have Cersei. That’s why no one has seen her and “Ser Robert” for months — they took a ship. And now those pirates have her, and the Seven only know what else — there’s reports of monsters in the harbor and monsters in the city — you can understand why I thought you should know. Come, if you want to help, but whatever you decide, keep the girl safe._

_— Jaime Lannister_

A trembling overtook Sansa as she read. It was so casual on the surface, but the quill had bit hard on the parchment when scribbling “the ironmen have Cersei” — she didn’t know what that meant exactly, or how it could be tied to wildfire, but she knew that it meant the ironmen had Ser Robert Strong, too. The huge, unstoppable monster that somehow also was Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides, Sandor’s hated older brother. The man who had murdered their father and sister and burned Sandor’s face so terribly as a boy.

Sandor had wanted to kill him so badly — she recalled the night he first told her of his scars, and how he had defended Ser Loras Tyrell from Gregor’s wrath — but the vengeance had been denied him when the Mountain was killed by a Dornish prince’s poisoned spear. But Gregor had somehow returned from death by some sorcery — rumors spoke of vile manipulations by a former maester — and somehow became Ser Robert Strong, a helmeted knight of the Kingsguard, and then a kingslayer on the run with the disgraced Queen Cersei.

So Sandor had pulled himself out of gods-knew-where to hunt down Gregor and destroy him at last. She remembered what he had told Ser Jaime in the Riverlands. _I’ve been waiting to kill Gregor for twenty years. He dies at my hand this time._ It seemed nothing short of miraculous that Sandor had found and rescued her on the way to his destiny.

But when forced to decide, he had chosen Sansa over his vengeance. More or less… he had stayed with her and brought her to his childhood home because he’d thought Gregor might hide out there. She had been so angry at him for misleading her, for swearing to protect her yet taking her into danger… danger, it seemed, that had never actually existed. And now that she was safe here, she knew there was no chance Sandor would choose her over his brother again.

The odd thing was that she realized she didn’t want him to. Last night she’d seen Sandor sleep peacefully for the first time in their acquaintance — most nights, she knew, he moved restlessly, muttering and moaning, suffering from nightmares that could have but one cause. She couldn’t — wouldn’t — stop him from trying to destroy the source of all his years of pain. _I could keep you safe,_ he’d said. _No one would hurt you again._ But how could she ever make him feel safe and unhurt? He could fight her battles for her, but she could never do the same for him.

And yet she was so desperately afraid. She didn’t want to lose him — he wasn’t just her lover and her protector, but perhaps the only true friend she had left in this world. And when Sandor faced down his brother at last, she knew only one of them would walk away. Sansa prayed it would be her Hound, but she couldn’t _know,_ and the fear tore at her. Still, she found it inconceivable to stand in his way.

Unshed tears were blurring the words of the letter. She wiped her eyes and looked up. Sandor had finished dressing and was sitting on the bed next to her, quietly watching her.

“I have to leave,” he said.

Sansa nodded. “I know. I won’t try to stop you.”

He looked surprised at that — mayhaps even a bit disappointed, she fancied, but he leaned in for a kiss that she eagerly returned. He wrapped one strong arm around her while his other hand stroked her hair, and she clutched at the rough fabric of his tunic, hoping the moment would never end.

But it did, and when they broke to breathe, she murmured, “I half-expected you to be racing down the Goldroad by now.”

He pulled away, releasing her. “I _would_ be,” he growled, sounding intensely frustrated. “But despite the sky, it’s still an hour or more till dawn, and if I push Stranger through these hills in the dark…”

The horse would be sure to lose his footing, perhaps break a leg, and then where would he be? But the mention of the time gave Sansa an idea, and she jumped up.

“Oh, Sandor, if we have an hour…”

He leaned back, gazing at her appreciatively.

“Then you must break your fast, and also prepare anything you want to bring with you — weapons, armor, whatever you need. I’ll go and tell the cook we’d like some food right away.”

“You want to _feed_ me?” He gaped at her, incredulous.

“Oh yes,” Sansa nodded. It seemed very few of the heroes of her songs and stories ever had a good meal before going off to fight dragons or monsters or whatever — in fact, she could only think of one, in the tale of the Manderly lord and the Merling King — but she’d always wondered why more didn’t. “Everyone feels better after a nice breakfast. Fights better, too.”

Sandor threw his head back and laughed. “Very well, little bird. Go, quickly now.”

* * *

Sansa puffed as she returned to her bedchamber. She had realized too late that she could have told a chambermaid, but it had seemed much more satisfying to inform the kitchen staff herself. She looked around, but Sandor wasn’t there, not even hiding in the shadows. Though her eye did fall on the dressing-table mirror… and saw her hair was all wild, mussed from sleep and the flight down and back up the towerhouse stairs. _I look a fair madwoman,_ she thought. No wonder the servants had positively leapt to do her bidding.

She took one of the sample strips of fabric that the dressmaker had left for her — hopefully she would have those new dresses soon, not to mention the smallclothes she was running desperately low on — and plaited it into her hair. Sansa nodded in satisfaction at the looking-glass, and then left the room to search for Sandor. Perhaps he had gone down into the yard…

She called out, “Sandor? They said they would be ready soon… where are you?”

“Up here, girl. Come see this,” his voice returned.

Sansa went up a floor to find Sandor in his small boyhood bedroom, kneeling in front of the wardrobe. By the light of the hallway candles and the faint glow from the window, she could see that he’d used his dagger to work a panel loose. As she watched, he pulled free a long, slim, covered drawer.

“A secret compartment?” she asked, excited. She had only heard of them in stories.

“Yes, little bird. Mine. Can’t believe Gregor and his rats never found it all this time. I’d half-forgotten it myself.”

Sandor tipped up the cover to reveal a large mass of yellow cloth. He shook it out, proving it to be a long surcoat, across which three black dogs raced.

“My father’s,” he rasped in response to her unspoken question. “It was too big for me when I left, so I hid it away, safe. Never thought I’d have the chance to see it again.”

Sansa nodded, unsure of any words to say. She had seen the Hound wear his family arms on a shield, but never anything else. His only concession to ornament had been the dog’s-head helm and his enameled dagger. This surcoat must be terribly precious to him if he wanted to take it with him now.

She knelt next to him, and glanced back into the drawer to see what else Sandor had treasured as a boy. Among other things, she noted a lock of dark hair, a wooden sword, a faded flower, a small blood-stained dog collar, a little box, a broken looking-glass… Sansa wanted to ask all the questions in the world, but there was no _time_. She settled on picking up the little box. It was made of carved wood, and its lid was painted with the Clegane arms. “What’s this, Sandor?”

“Ah. The other thing I wanted you to see.” He grinned at her. “Open it.”

She looked up at him curiously, then lifted off the lid. Her mouth opened in wonder. Lying on velvet inside the box were some pieces of gold jewelry — a tiara, necklace, and earrings, all set with glassy black stones. Sansa held a delicate earring up to the light, a green flare bursting just as she did. The oddly-shaped stone had a shine, a glow that she couldn’t recall seeing before.

“So pretty,” she murmured. “But… this isn’t polished jet?”

“Dragonglass,” he replied. “Careful, there might be sharp edges still. My father once found a cache of arrowheads out in the hills, and fancying they looked a bit like dog’s teeth, had them made into jewelry for his lady wife. My sister was supposed to have them, but… she died too young. And I put them away as soon as I could, so Gregor wouldn’t get his filthy hands on them. My father was… too troubled to notice.” They sat in silence for a moment, before he said, “But they’re yours now.”

Sansa gasped, “Oh, no, I couldn’t. These were your mother’s… your sister’s… I can’t take them away from your family.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have a family, little bird. And I took you away from the Vale with naught but the clothes on your back. You deserve something pretty, and these jewels deserve someone pretty to wear them.” He added, a bit lamely, “Besides… they should look nice with your hair.”

Her septa had taught Sansa that a lady should only accept jewelry from certain kinds of men, of which Sandor Clegane was most definitely not one. But then, her septa had said lots of things that Sansa was currently ignoring. And this was _Sandor._ He would be leaving soon and might never come back. How could she refuse him anything? And the jewelry was so very pretty…

“Of course, Sandor. Thank you for thinking of me, especially now.” She kissed his cheek. “Shall we go down to breakfast? Time is running short.”

A half-smile quirked across his lips, and he stood and offered her his arm.

* * *

Dawn was breaking, clear and cold.

She stood in the courtyard, waiting for Sandor to reappear. Though her belly was full of warm food, Sansa shivered in the chill, wishing for a cloak of some kind — but the white fur was ruined and the other he had only just promised. She remembered how it had felt when he swept one around her shoulders, taking the time to fasten the clasp even as wolves surrounded them. With his height, he had no trouble at all reaching her… _no, don’t, don’t think of that, you know it can never be._

The servants who had breakfasted with them were standing near her, albeit keeping a good distance. Surprisingly, a few were talking to each other, though their voices were very low. As the sun rose, more servants arrived, until Sansa realized the full complement of the keep must be assembled in the courtyard. Waiting for Sandor, just like her.

He strode out of the stables leading his horse and she gasped. With the surcoat over his grey armor, Oathkeeper’s scabbard belted around his waist… although she knew it would be the height of foolishness to tell him so, Sandor looked every inch a knight. So tall, so strong… and as he busied himself with Stranger, his hair fell across his face, masking his scars, and she had a vision of what might have been, had to blink back tears. There should be a wife and laughing children, he should be heading out for a hunt or to visit his smallfolk or liege lord. Not leaving his home for a mortal battle from which he might never return.

Sansa had thought she no longer cared for knights, for all their words of honor and chivalry had proven false. But in this moment it was like all the dreams of her youth had returned… and she felt so stupid, such a fool to apply them to the Hound, who hated knights and spat on all they stood for… who said he was a butcher, just a killer, nothing but a dog…

Sandor, the only member of the Kingsguard who had refused to beat her, for all that he was the Lannisters’ most loyal man. Sandor, who had seen her moment of determination, of self-destruction, and had saved her then, without once letting on to Joffrey what had nearly happened. Sandor, who had faced a raging mob to rescue her. Sandor, who had come to her a broken man, a drunken deserter, and yet still wanted to help her… and who had seen her fear and let her be, leaving her nothing but a kiss and a bloody cloak. Sandor, who had come from nowhere to save her from Littlefinger’s hedge knight. Sandor, who had saved her from the wolves. Again and again he had proven himself to her. For all he hated knights, he was a truer knight than any who claimed the title.

She pushed away the thought, hard as she could, forcing herself to think instead of Sandor’s strong arms and broad chest and how well he fought, how he had defeated all comers at the melee in the Vale. She should not be that frightened, surely he would defeat Gregor and return to his home… to her… but still…

It was less than a week ago that Sansa had thought he might leave her forever. When Ser Jaime had found them in the Riverlands and given Sandor the choice, her or the Mountain. Only a few days ago, she had wanted Sandor to stay with her more than anything; to protect her, to return her freshly-acknowledged affections, to keep her world safe. She had been so overjoyed when he had elected to remain with her.

And now, he was leaving again, and this time she had not even _tried_ to keep him with her. She wished she had fought this new parting more, and wondered if he thought less of her for not doing so. But in just a few days, it felt like everything had changed.

It wasn’t concern for herself anymore, but concern for him, she realized. It wasn’t just desire to keep him close to her, to see if her infatuation was returned. It wasn’t that she was afraid for herself, what his absence might mean to her safety. It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to leave her, because she desperately wanted him to stay.  She cared so much for him, she was afraid for him, he mattered more to her than she could have ever imagined. Sansa couldn’t let him go without telling him how she felt… but if she did…

Sandor swung the last of his packs, the saddlebag containing his dog’s-head helm, over Stranger’s back. Then he called over Maester Denyel, speaking something to him that she couldn’t hear, but she saw the maester taking a knee in the mud. After that, Sandor looked up and addressed the waiting servants in a loud, clear voice. “I’m heading off to Lannisport. Might be some time. While I am away, you will obey the lady’s voice as if it were my own. And protect her with your lives — if I ever hear otherwise, they won’t be worth shit.”

Sansa blushed. While she appreciated the sentiment, she wished he would be less crude. But it was Sandor, after all, and she supposed this was the best she could ask for. And then he looked over at her and his eyes lit up, and she made herself walk up to him and smile, made herself not show the fear. She fought the urge to shout, _please, please don’t go, I don’t want you to die…_ It was best to just be brave, to behave how she had been taught a lady should conduct herself when her lord went off to war. Though Sandor wasn’t her lord… but what he was to her, she could not say. Dared not say.

But despite her brave front, he still saw her uncontrollable shivers, and put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re cold, little bird. Wish I had that cloak ready for you now.”

 _It’s better he thinks me merely cold, not afraid._ “It’s all right, Sandor. I’ll call back the seamstress soon, and I’ll have it next time you see me. Or mayhaps I’ll sew one myself,” she smiled. He had never actually mocked her needlework, but she could tell he thought it was below her. Nevertheless, though the skills she had learned were more suited for the running of a home than the defense of one, she was still proud of them.

Sandor shook his head. “Suit yourself, then. Now… I asked the maester to keep horses ready for you and him, just in case… something comes here. Not sure I trust the little weasel, but he’ll find somewhere safe for you if needs be. And I swore him to your service, for all that’s worth when a man like that makes an oath like that.”

He looked up to the sky and back down again. “And another one I don’t trust… but Ser Stump could have done a lot worse when he found us, and he didn’t. If he and the Maid come for you…” _and I don’t,_ were the unsaid words there, “the Quiet Isle isn’t so bad a place. Tell the Elder Brother… I tried. Couldn’t keep the Hound dead, but I’m grateful he bothered with Sandor Clegane. Because I finally…” he paused, taking a deep breath, then murmured, “saved you, little bird, and that’s enough. A better absolution than the Seven could have granted me,” he said hoarsely.

Sansa bit her lip and closed her eyes. _Tell him, tell him, tell him…_ but if she did, she might stop him and… she didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She needed him to stay, but she knew he had to leave, for his own sake… _I can’t keep him here just for me. It wouldn’t be fair, and he’s had too much unfairness already._

Sandor was tilting her chin up to meet his face, so much more gently than he’d ever done so before. She opened her eyes and met his, trying to read the expression there, searching for words. “What shall I do while you’re… away?” she managed.

He blinked, and asked, “You were going to talk with the maester today?” She nodded, and he said roughly, “Good… that’s best for you, girl, don’t you doubt it.”

 _It isn’t, it’s not what I want, but it is, it has to be, oh gods…_ “And after?”

“If you like… let him show you the household accounts, see if you can get started on the necessary repairs to the keep. You’re determined to mend things, little bird, you may as well try with this home of mine. Oh, and if you’d like something nice… ask him to show you the dogs,” he grinned.

That smile was what broke her, in the end. When he smiled like that, so genuinely, almost boyish… she felt her tears defying her control, felt the crack in the armor of her courtesies. She couldn’t let him go without telling him. Without showing him what he meant to her.

Somewhat desperately, Sansa pulled the strip of fabric from her hair. “Sandor, please… take this.” She pressed it into his hand. It was no proper favor, but she had nothing else to give him. “I know, I know you’re no knight, I know you don’t want it, don’t want anything of the sort, but… please. For me. For luck. For…”

Strange expressions were passing over his face, and she wondered how she herself looked, with her stuttering words and quick breathing and the tears fighting to escape. She took a deep breath, and gasped, “I love you, Sandor. Please come back to me.”

Sansa heard his breath catch, and then his strong arms wrapped around her, and he kissed her before everyone in the yard. She could hear their quiet murmurs stilling to silence, hear the pulse of her blood in her ears. An endless moment passed, and she felt loved, possessed, precious… the only thing that mattered was Sandor and how he made her feel.

And then he let her go, and swung up onto his horse. “I will, my lady,” he said. And before she knew it, he was gone.

* * *

Sansa stood alone, shivering in the dawn air. _I am such a fool._ She wasn’t sure what she had expected to happen after she told him of her love. His own bold declaration? That was madness — of course he didn’t _love_ her, a man like him would never even believe in love, that sort of thing was for songs and stories and all the other courtly nonsense twittered by a pretty little bird.

At least… at least he had kissed her passionately. _At least he didn’t reject me or call me a fool outright. We share passion if nothing else._ And at least he had taken her favor, and not rejected that either.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, praying to the Seven, to the Old Gods, to anyone who would listen. _Please keep him safe. Please bring him back to me._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This is a spinoff/AU of Egleriel's awesome story, A Song of Steel.  See, as I read that fic, I found it amazing enough to get my mind going on what could happen next, and before I knew it I had written pages and pages of material. (Which was kind of embarrassing – I hadn't written a proper fanfic in _years_ , let alone fic for another author's unfinished work.)  So I contacted her with my feedback and confession, and she was kind enough to give me her blessing, so to speak.  
> 
> If you have read the fic (which you should), this story spins off immediately after her [chapter 16](http://archiveofourown.org/works/242047/chapters/393731). It obviously doesn't go quite the same way her story does, though we did have a few coincidental thoughts here and there (it's a San/San fic, what can you do). If you haven't read the fic (though for goodness' sake, if you're a shipper who's reading _mine_ , you should read hers, especially [chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/242047/chapters/376017) which is the best ever), here's what has come between the end of ADWD and the start of my story:
> 
> * Sandor Clegane emerges from his self-imposed seclusion on the Quiet Isle after learning his hated brother Gregor has returned from the dead through some dark magic. Representing Queen Cersei in her trial, "Ser Robert Strong" has killed the Faith's champion Lancel Lannister and also young King Tommen (accidentally). Gregor and Cersei have vanished, nobody knows where, but Sandor intends to find out.
>   
> 
> * To get back into fighting shape, Sandor signs up as a guard for a traveling merchant and arrives in the Vale just in time for a tournament, which he ends up participating in anonymously. Meanwhile at the tournament, Sansa Stark is getting to know her future husband Harry Hardyng, but her "father" Littlefinger becomes jealous and dangerously grabby.  He sends her away with one of his household knights; unfortunately said knight takes the opportunity to collect the price on Sansa's head. But Sandor rescues her, yay.
>   
> 
> * Sansa asks to travel with him, so he can keep her safe like he once promised, and he, naturally, does not refuse. On the trip, they get to know each other better (arguments, much sexual tension, etc. – honestly, people, just read Egleriel's fic), including Sandor telling her about his travels with her sister Arya. One evening in the Riverlands the tension spills over just in time to be interrupted by...
>   
> 
> * Jaime Lannister, Sandor's liege lord, and his companion Brienne the Maid of Tarth - fresh from dealing with the Brotherhood and on their own hunt for Cersei and Gregor. Jaime gives Sandor a choice: stay with Sansa, or go with him after Gregor. Sandor chooses her, and Jaime swears him to her service and returns his helm. Brienne also gives him the sword Oathkeeper, to defend Sansa with her father's steel. They head off in different directions – J&B to Casterly Rock to search for Cersei, and S&S towards Clegane Keep.
>   
> 
> * When Sansa realizes Sandor is hoping to find Gregor there, claiming to protect her but still taking her into danger, it provokes another argument – which ends in a kiss that leads to her first night of passion.  After, their travels continue, and they narrowly escape Nymeria's wolfpack before eventually arriving at Sandor's childhood home in the Westerlands.
>   
> 
> * They're greeted there by a nervous maester and a traumatized and quiet staff of servants, but otherwise the keep seems perfectly safe, if somewhat the worse for Gregor's wear.  And despite yet another argument, the two settle in, and that night Sandor ends up in her bed again... before he wakes in the pre-dawn to see a glow in the northwest – the city of Lannisport is on fire.
> 
> One last note: I've changed the character of the maester a lot, I think, and as he's an OC I thought it would be best if I renamed him. And again, my extreme thanks to Egleriel for letting me play in the wonderful addition she's made to GRRM's world.


	2. Sandor I

Snow-covered trees rushed past Sandor Clegane as he rode through the hills on his way to Lannisport. The thunder of Stranger’s hooves filled his ears, but nothing would be loud enough to block out Sansa’s words from his mind.

_I love you, Sandor. Please come back to me._

He clenched his fist, twisting the piece of fabric she’d given him. Her _favor. Seven hells. Should’ve pushed her away and told her not to be such a bloody idiot._ Ripped that cloth to pieces… ripped her _heart_ to pieces… why had he said nothing, only kissed her? _I’m not a knight of her songs, not the prince of her dreams… never the man she wants, and the girl_ knows _this… we_ both _know this. All I’ll ever do is bring her pain._

Sandor winced, recalling how the pale morning light had revealed the bruises he’d left on her neck, her wrists — he was as bad as that bastard Littlefinger. _Worse. He left her a maiden, but you took what even_ that _piece of shit wouldn’t do._ Like he’d almost wanted when… he remembered the dagger he’d held to her throat… twisted the point… had that bruised? He didn’t know, he’d abandoned her like the craven dog he was. And last night, with the sky aflame once more, he’d almost asked her… almost begged her… _though you never said the words, did you, coward?_ But Sansa had taken his hand and looked at him, with the light of trust and forgiveness in her eyes… why? And she _loved_ him… how? Nothing he deserved, after all the things he’d done to her. And for all he’d never done for her.

 _Stupid fool._ What did the girl know of love, anyway? Her courtly songs had filled her head with nonsense. Of course she confused love with whatever passion, infatuation, lust she had for the man she’d given her maiden’s gift to. _Gods…_ she was so sweet, the perfect lady, choosing him, and then once more, proving it was no freak occurrence, no temporary madness… Sansa _looked_ at him, wanted him, kissed him back, writhed under his touch, moaned his name again and again as he thrust into her… smiled at him after and held him close… He’d never had a woman like that, never one that treated him with such kindness and honest appreciation, never one who actually seemed to _like_ him, a woman he could talk to, laugh with, trust. Sandor wanted to give her the world, give her everything. He would kill for her, die for her… so why was he racing away from her as fast as his horse could carry him?

To kill Gregor, of course. That’s how all the songs went, didn’t they, slay the monster and rescue the maiden. Only the lady in question was _Cersei_. Of all people…

* * *

_He was new to Casterly Rock, a page desperately trying to prove his worth. As he ran errands through the castle, waiting for a chance in the training yard, his eye was caught by the sight of her golden curls — not rare here, but none shone like hers — and the sound of her sweet, bell-like laughter… so cruel when turned on him._

_“Gods, you are_ ugly. _Even uglier than Tyrion. What is that, some horrible new sort of greyscale?” She turned to her ladies and they giggled. “Keep back, it might be catching!”_

 _Sandor stood at attention, resisting the urge to quickly pull his hair over his face, or gods help him, run off._ She is your liege lord’s daughter, the lady of this castle, and this is nothing. _“No, my lady, I was… burned, as a child.” His voice, always rough, cracked on that last word, and he flushed._

_“A child? And you’re a man now? I would have never guessed… though you’re tall enough,” she purred. Such a fierce lioness, always a lady but cold and sharp as a knife…_

_The first woman he ever had… as the whore pretended to love him, he raked his fingers through her blonde curls and imagined sweet Cersei, the most beautiful woman in Westeros. But she shuddered when he tried to kiss her, wouldn’t dare look at his face… and he knew Cersei would have done the same or worse. Certainly_ said _worse._

_And even when the Kingslayer had made him her sword shield, Sandor knew his place… merely her dog, ugly and obedient, fit only for whores, never daring above his station. He had thought there could be no sweeter torture. Until so many years later, when his loyalty had long since turned to hate… another castle and another girl, so highborn, so pretty… but with courtly manners and true kindness to everyone, even him…_

* * *

He slowed Stranger to a walk — his poor horse had barely rested a day before Sandor took him on another hellride. Though the stallion only had to deal with the weight of one person now, best to take it slow for the moment, especially in this area just southeast of Lannisport. Sandor hadn’t been this way in years, but he recalled narrow ravines, and bogs that’d barely freeze over in winter. Dangerous for a man, and worse for a horse.

He took the time to examine the favor the little bird had given him. It wasn’t a ribbon, he saw now, but a strip of fabric, one of the samples the seamstress had left for her. And not even one of those in Stark colors, or even Sansa’s favorite blue, but one of his own colors, the yellow silk. His mouth twitched. A poor excuse for a lady’s favor, but what suited him better?

It was almost funny… right before she pressed it upon him, Sandor had been going to ask _her_. She was right, he didn’t want it… but that moment had felt so strange. Addressing _his people_ in the courtyard of _his keep,_ with _his lady_ watching… all the things he never had, why not ask for the moon next? Make a show of it, indulge the little bird’s fancies, give her a fond memory if nothing else. _Far better than the last time you left her._ But she’d cut his plans out from under him, with one distracting question after another, and then there she was, giving him her favor as if he were that bright-haired boy in the Vale. And then saying…

If Sansa really loved him, she should have protested more, he thought stubbornly. From the time he said he was leaving, she had seemed to accept it with barely a qualm… not the way she’d been when they’d faced a similar choice on the way to his keep. But he knew he would not have been able to stay with her, not when facing Gregor was a certainty and she was as safe as she could be for now. Did she know that? Could it be she had tried to spare him the choice, this time?

Her looks had been so inscrutable — nothing false, no lies, those would have been easy to see — but it was nearly impossible to read her now when she closed up like that. Littlefinger had trained her well, and he hated the man more than ever for it. To turn the girl’s kindness and courtesies into a hollow mask of smiles… It was worse than the dull obedience that had marked her days under Joffrey’s rule, making Sandor want to push her, as he’d done then, until her mask dropped.

But in the end, she had revealed herself. And in that moment, when tears had filled her eyes, he saw all her emotions so clearly, he knew what she was saying was as true to her as it could ever be. She, Sansa Stark, loved _him_ — and as much as he wanted to pretend the little bird had no idea of what love meant, Sandor _knew_ she said it with all the truth of her heart, she _loved_ him. And all he could do…

All he did was kiss her and then flee like a craven dog.

The beautiful little bird, brave enough to say she was _his…_ and he turned tail and ran. _Just like you always do._

* * *

_The boy’s feet ached, but not as much as his heart. A few of the servants had tried to comfort him, but he shrugged them off, even Owen the kennelmaster who’d always been so kind… they wouldn’t last another year in the Keep, he was certain. Nor would he, if he stayed. A day’s walk, running when he could, had brought him to this sheltered copse, and he trembled in the cold spring darkness… a fire would help, but someone might see him, and then… No, Sandor wasn’t going back, not ever, no matter what._

_He hadn’t taken the chance of a horse, maybe Gregor would ignore him leaving, but not if he took anything of_ value _with him. He’d only dared to sneak into Father’s bedchamber before Gregor could claim it, taking Father’s best surcoat from the wardrobe… burying his face in the scent of horse and dog and steel and sweat that was_ Father… _and hiding it away with everything else Gregor had stolen from him. He desperately wanted to bring those with him, but the thought of what could happen if he was caught and they found his treasures… his mocking laughter… losing it all again would be too much to bear. Better they stay safe, even if hidden away forever._

 _So all he had with him now was some bread and cheese and a skin of water, just the clothes on his back. Except for his dagger, which was_ his, _a gift from Father for his tenth name day… he’d spent the months since wondering if he had the strength to shove it into Gregor’s dark heart, or even cut his throat in his sleep, hesitating only because it would make him a kinslayer, as bad as Gregor was for hurting…_ killing _their sister. Though if he failed, if Gregor killed him instead, at least he would have tried, maybe it would have been enough, and maybe Father would_ do _something, at last, please… but Sandor had never found the courage or the resolve. And now it was too late. Gregor’s own name day had come and gone, and the hunt…_

I won’t cry, I won’t, I’m a man now, I have to be… for Elinor… for Father… _He wrapped his arms tight against the cold, sinking into sleep. His dreams were filled with fire as always, and his sister’s sad grey eyes, and the body limp over the back of Gregor’s horse… In the morning, he’d woken with frozen tears on his ruined cheek._

* * *

Sandor remembered that stupid boy, who still believed in knights and in the justice that lords would surely bring. He would have won tourneys for his lady, would make her Queen of Love and Beauty, crown her with roses, take her away… but this was no tourney joust he rode down. No game, but the confrontation he’d waited for all his life.

This close to Lannisport, the sky was nearly black with smoke. It had to be well past noon, but there was no sun that he could see, only a red light reflected from the roiling clouds… with occasional flares of green. His breathing grew faster as he fought back memories — horses screaming like men, his men screaming like children, the fireball bursting in his face, flames licking at his helm… But no, this was not the Blackwater, that was years past — no need to fight off an army, he was just going in to find Gregor, slay him, and leave.

_Which frightens you more, dog? The flames, or facing Gregor at last? Which one makes you want to run away and believe nothing will ever come for you? Do you think she’d welcome you back if you deserted your duty again? You know better than to pretend your home is refuge from monsters._

As he approached the burning city, Sandor could see a crowd of smallfolk fleeing towards the Goldroad. They scattered as he raced past them, too fast for any to make another move, not that a man among them would be foolish enough to attack an armed rider. But it was a reminder that the ironmen wouldn’t be so spineless. And he thought he saw a few, fighting red cloaks by the city gate a mile or so ahead.

Sandor reined up, letting Stranger rest a moment while he finished arming himself. Sansa’s favor — _ah, bugger it all_ — he took off his vambrace and tied on the cloth, then rebuckled it to his shield arm. He pulled his helm from the saddlebag… how in seven hells Ser Stump had found it after it’d been stolen from the Hound’s grave, he didn’t know. _A red priest advised me to throw it in the river_ — Thoros, mayhaps, the same flaming fraud who’d been with Dondarrion’s outlaws? Someone had taken time to repair the sheared-off ear and shine the metal, though. He shook his head… back when he’d first bought the dog’s head helm from a King’s Landing armorer, he’d taken pride in keeping it in perfect condition, but it was _his_ … what kind of fool _wanted_ to be the Hound?

 _Not me, not anymore._ But as his visor snapped shut, Sandor felt that familiar confidence, that there was nothing more frightening on the field than him. He unsheathed Oathkeeper, the sword’s red and black blade like fire and smoke, and grinned. _Let’s see how many men I can make piss themselves,_ he thought, kicked his heels, and his warhorse charged into the fray.

Moments later, there was nothing but the joy of battle, the rush, the effortless sensation of the sword in his hand and the men falling around him. An axe came at him and glanced off his shield harmlessly. Stranger snapped and bit, and kicked one ironman in the chest with a wet crunch. And that was all.

Red faded from his vision, and he saw the gate was now free of any armed men but two in Lannister colors. He flicked open his visor and pointed his sword at one Lannister man-at-arms. “You. They say there’s monsters in the city? Where?”

The man — barely a boy, he realized — merely stared at him, at his helm in fear. _Right here,_ Sandor imagined him replying, but the boy swallowed and said, “Tommen’s Square, center of the city. Where the wildfire is thickest.”

“Of course.” He chuckled, biting back the urge to laugh madly. _Of course._ He nodded at the postern gate. “I’m going through. Hold the gate behind me.”

“By what authority, ser?”

Bold lad, but he had no time for a mummer’s farce right now. He thrust the sword closer, letting the point of the Valyrian steel blade touch against the gate guard’s gorget. The ruby eyes of the golden lions on the hilt glinted, reflecting the virulent sky. “This, boy.”

A few minutes later, on the other side of the wall, he wondered whether it was the threat of the sword or its Lannister ornamentation that the guard had accepted as authority. _Either’s good,_ Sandor smirked, as the blade cut through a reaver’s armor like a knife through butter.

* * *

Other than the few raiders he’d encountered so far, there didn’t seem to be many ironmen in the southeastern part of the city — but many buildings aflame. Some of the fires were being handled by the red-cloaked Lannisport Watch, some by whatever townspeople had chosen not to flee. From the way the ground sloped, he could see far more flames and fighting by the main gate and the harbor gate. His vantage even let him catch a glimpse of the harbor itself, filled with ships and fire, but no monsters as far as he could see.

Sandor wondered what this meant for his mission — was the monster in the city just a rumor too? But no, there had been the gate guard’s words… and he could see the green fire was mostly concentrated in the center of the city, so that much was true. As he was watching, a plume of wildfire lit the sky, and he continued, alert for anything.

That boy… it could have been _Sandor_ by the gate, had he not decided to go to King’s Landing with Ser Tygett’s men — and had he not accepted Jaime’s offer to protect his sister. What sort of man would that have been, serving in a small way, never moving among the elite, never seeing the worst of what the so-called nobility could offer? (Except for Gregor. Nothing Sandor had seen or done in Lannister service, nothing he had witnessed or done as sword shield for the queen and prince, could ever be as bad as what he had seen — had _known_ — of his brother’s deeds.) That smaller, provincial Sandor Clegane… no Battle of the Blackwater for him, it would be the Battle of Lannisport that would present the temptation to flee from his post.

A ragged group of townspeople ran past him, screaming in terror, and Sandor abandoned his useless chain of thought to focus on the here and now. They were chased by half-a-dozen men ahorse — Iron Island arms on their chests but red and gold tack on the horses, he noted. And despite his desire to avoid all conflicts except one, it seemed the reavers liked the challenge of one man alone, and they turned toward him.

A savage grin spread across Sandor Clegane’s face. He liked those odds too. Stranger charged, and there was only the fight, his warhorse and his sword, working as one. He cut through the men easily, like a dog through rats, and he laughed. _I was made for this._ And then the voice of the Elder Brother returned to him, gentle but persistent as always. _Made by_ who, _Sandor?_

“Bugger you, old man, your gods aren’t shit,” he muttered. But the memory threw him off a step, and Oathkeeper caught in an ironman’s mail — or ribs, it made no matter. For the moment, he abandoned his sword to seize the haft of an attacker’s axe and turn it on its former owner. The axe served well enough to finish off the remaining man, and once again Sandor and his horse stood alone, panting but unbloodied. Could be luck… or skill… or maybe it was that the stupid buggers’ tactics hadn’t changed since the last Greyjoy Rebellion.

He dismounted, retrieved his sword, and hung the axe from his belt — he’d left his dagger with Sansa, and the other weapon might continue to be useful. As he swung himself onto Stranger’s back, he glimpsed a face… one of those he’d “rescued”, peering around the side of a house. Though the man hid again as soon as he saw the dog’s head helm turn in his direction, and Sandor snorted. _Yes, the damned “Butcher of Saltpans” is on your side, believe that._

* * *

He continued toward the center of the city, avoiding the burning buildings and flaming debris, dealing with smallfolk and ironmen apace. Then the street he’d taken dead-ended in a broken wall and a pile of wreckage, and he swore, searching for another route… until he heard faint voices on the other side of the wall. Voices he thought he recognized. A woman’s shrill scream split the air and an explosion rocked the bricks, and Sandor knew he had found them.

It looked like the fastest route was up… he’d gain height advantage too, spy out the situation… yes. It would mean he’d have to leave his horse behind — but Stranger was a warhorse, and could protect himself from any man fool enough to approach him. Sandor dismounted, flipped up his visor, and leaned his head against the horse’s muzzle. “Good fight, eh, boy?” he whispered. “You stay safe, and I’ll find you after… get you some oats, a nice grassy field… maybe a mare or two, hmm?” Sandor patted Stranger’s shoulder, wrapped his reins around the pommel, and turned back to the wall.

Climbing the debris — mostly loose bricks, a wrecked wagon, gods knew what else — proved fairly simple, even with his bad leg, and his shield strapped to his arm. As he hoisted himself up, his senses alert for any sign of what awaited on the other side, Sandor recalled how he heard that the Red Viper shouted his sister’s name before driving his poisoned spear into Gregor’s belly. Not that it did him any good, in the end. _And I have too many names, anyhow._

He’d reached the top. Sandor glanced back — there was Stranger, several yards away and below him, shifting nervously — before raising his head carefully above the bricks. A near-prayer rushed through his mind… let them be there, let _him_ be there…

The scene below looked like all the seven hells put together. Tommen’s Square, the center of the proud city… a plaza filled with piles of rubble, pillars of green and red fire, and smoke, ashes, and dust… a nightmare come once again to life— _damn you, enough._ Sandor peered through the smoke, and past the flames, and there, _yes…_

In battered white armor, the monster waited, all eight feet of him. A greathelm hid his face, and a ragged white cloak flowed from his huge shoulders — _a Kingsguard cloak, yes, they made_ him _a Kingsguard_ — and he bore an unsheathed sword, big enough to cut an ox in two. And as Sandor breathed shallowly, he saw a woman — _Cersei?_ — dash around the armored hulk, howling. She threw… some object… at a group of soldiers, and it exploded in shards and a flare of green flame. They screamed as the wildfire caught hold, and Sandor flinched. _What in seven bloody hells..?_

He lifted himself over the edge of the wall and let the situation come clearer into view. The monster — _Gregor_ — was not simply standing and waiting, but moving, fast for his size as always, fighting with someone… another knight…? No, the Maid of Tarth, in her blue armor and helm, her sword meeting his with sparks and a scream of metal-on-metal. She was a freakishly big woman, but Gregor towered over her, huge, his greatsword slicing through the air…

But Brienne was faster, and dodged a killing blow, rolling in the dirt and springing to her feet once more. _Good,_ Sandor thought, better than the buggering Knight of Flowers. But Gregor was _his_ to kill… He moved faster, but with care, trying to cross the burning field to the combatants without catching the attention of that madwoman with the wildfire. Bloody alchemist’s piss, it couldn’t be quenched with water, would even burn steel… normally it needed a spark to ignite but he’d heard the older shit only needed to be _bumped_ and it’d go up, that even _sunlight_ was enough heat to set it off… and this place was hot as the seven hells.

Closer now but still a distance away, he saw her bend to take a clay pot from a pile of many, and Sandor could see she was indeed Cersei Lannister, beautiful as ever, unharmed but for ash and dirt. In fact, Cersei looked _remarkably_ unharmed for a woman who had been traveling with his brother — and again Sandor wondered how much of Gregor’s spirit was left in this creature, or if it was just some mindless body, or if it even _was_ his brother’s body — but no, the height and bulk were unmistakable, it _had_ to be him. As for Cersei, despite her torn gown and short hair, she could almost be the fierce lion queen he had last seen in King’s Landing years ago. But then she turned her head in his direction… and Sandor saw her eyes, glazed and wild, burning green like the wildfire she commanded.

Sandor ducked behind a heap of debris, and her gaze passed over him, returning to the Lannister guards some distance away. And there was Jaime, approaching his sister, unarmed, open-handed. “Come with me, Cersei,” he pleaded. “Leave this madness behind, let me take you to Casterly Rock, take you _home…”_

“I _told_ you, Jaime, stay away!” she screamed. “Go, you don’t understand… I _have_ to save Myrcella, the witch needs to _die—”_ Cersei hurled the clay pot over her brother’s head, and as the explosion died away, Sandor overheard, “—burn this _stinking_ city to the ground!”

 _“Gods,_ Cersei!” the Kingslayer shouted hoarsely, desperate with grief. “That witch is dead, dead for years… come, _please—”_ He moved towards her, arms outstretched… and suddenly the huge white knight was between them.

Gregor’s greatsword swung at Jaime, and Sandor ran, still yards distant… But there was Brienne, her shield intercepting the blow. The Maid fought fiercely, drawing the two of them away from the lions. But the monster never strayed far from his mistress, keeping Cersei safe from anyone who approached her. _So I don’t, I just go for_ him, _stab him right in his black heart._

Just as he was almost upon them, the Beauty matched one more strike on the edge of her blade, and her sword… broke. _The sword I gave her,_ Sandor thought wildly, watching her stumble back, helpless. And then he wasn’t thinking at all…

Oathkeeper was in his hand. He shouted, threw the sword in her direction. Grabbed for the axe at his belt. Leapt. Swung. _Struck._

It felt like the easiest thing in the world, a slice through enameled steel and mail and muscle and bone, striking off Gregor’s head. The greathelm _flew_ with the force of the blow.

_gods at last at last at last_

Sandor landed on his knees, a strange shock running up his arm. And he saw the helm rolling. Dented. _Empty._

…and Gregor’s body began to turn toward him, the legs like trees not falling, giant sword still clutched in his huge fist. There was nothing, _nothing_ above his shoulders, nothing but thick black blood oozing from a ragged neck.

The monster advanced at Sandor, each armored foot crashing on the ground like thunder. He scrambled backwards, reaching desperately for his weapon… _seven hells,_ the axehead had _melted_ , the haft was _smoking,_ and his ears were pounding, but he heard the laughter, the booming voice from the darkest corners of his memories, a hiss like coals…

_Little pup._

_What are you doing here, puppy? All dressed up, pretending to be a knight…_

Sandor Clegane pulled himself to his feet, dusted off his surcoat and spat. “Better than you.” He raised his shield and gripped the steel axehaft… poor weapon, but all he had now. The _thing_ kept moving and the greatsword came at him, fast. Sandor dodged, and struck at the edge of the sword with his steel, hoping it might find a weakness, break the blade like the Maid’s had… nothing. Shit, his right arm was still half numb from that shock, useless, _useless—_ he backed away, keeping his shield between himself and the monster, and again heard _his_ laughter and that voice from the deepest of the seven hells.

 _Is that a_ favor _on your arm, boy? Did the puppy get himself a little bitch?_

 _No._ Gods, the thought of that creature coming _home_ , finding Sansa, _hurting_ her, _no. Don’t listen, don’t think of her, keep moving, find a better weapon, he’s bigger but you’re faster… do this, you can do this, you must…_ The greatsword slashed down again, inexorably. Sandor ducked and rolled along the ground, searching for anything, _anything_ to help.

And he saw the Maid of Tarth, recovered, strike Oathkeeper along the knight’s unguarded side, the edge of the Valyrian steel slicing through the enameled armor like butter. _Yes._ Sandor’s fist clenched around a rock, and as the monster turned towards the new attacker, he threw it, aiming for the weak spot behind the knee.

It hit, by the Stranger’s own luck. “Gregor,” he rasped. “Look at me. At _me.”_ Bugger it all, he did, _as much as a headless thing can look, anyhow,_ and Brienne came in with another slice, battering at the armor.

 _That’s the way to do it._ “You know you want to kill me, you’ve always wanted it! So come and get me, _brother!”_ He shouted, swore, threw dirt and rocks, and jabbed at Gregor with the axehaft. Anything to keep him distracted, attention on Sandor while the Maid cut the armor to ribbons — and whatever flesh might be beneath it. Oathkeeper’s red blade smoked like his axe had, but the Valyrian steel remained whole, that unbreakable edge slashing again and again. Sandor could see black fluid seeping from the cuts in the armor, and the creature seemed at a loss, unable to focus on either attacker… _but how do we_ kill _him? He’s already dead._

“Robert!” Cersei screamed, shrill and loud. All three of them turned towards the sound, and saw Jaime had caught hold of his sister, pulling her away from her cache of wildfire pots. The giant knight batted both Sandor and Brienne away like flies, and ran at the Lannisters, ponderously but even faster than he’d ever moved when fighting either of them. _Was he_ playing _with us?_ Sandor thought dazedly. _No, she’s more important to him than anything, even me. A better distraction…_ And he picked himself up and followed, the big woman right after.

The giant had grabbed Jaime by the neck, lifting him kicking into the air, and Sandor heard Brienne howl as she ran — _too late, girl,_ that was one of Gregor’s favorite tricks, grab and _squeeze_ — but Cersei said, “No! I _told_ you, don’t kill him.” Her monster shrugged, and tossed her twin away… and whirled to parry the Maid’s wild slash with Oathkeeper. _This is where I came in, damn it all,_ Sandor cursed. _But much closer now._

Close enough to hear Cersei mutter, _“That_ bitch… still alive, you’re _sloppy_ , Robert, destroy my _enemies,_ I said… you!” She spun around, her eyes wide and wild, and it was as if she hadn’t even seen him until he put his hands on her. _“You._ Clegane. You… _traitor!_ You left _Joff…_ you let him _die!”_ And all his plans vanished like smoke, for there was a clay pot in her hand, leaking green.

Too close to dodge, Sandor turned his head and it caught him on the side of his helm. For half a heartbeat, an endless moment, the wildfire ran down not igniting, but then the two of them blew apart in a roar. He could _feel_ the burning, flames licking at the metal… in a haze of green fire and fear he swore, rolling, desperately tearing off his helm, pauldrons, gorget… until half his armor lay burning on the ground, but at last he was free of the flames. As he tried to catch his panicked breath, he could hear someone laughing…

It was Cersei, not even a touch of fire upon her as she cackled madly. “Oh, dog, you should see your _face…”_ She stopped abruptly, and called, “Robert.” Her white knight appeared behind her, armor cut and dripping black blood in half a hundred places, but still implacable, unstoppable. Cersei drew herself up imperiously, a queen despite her rags and ashes, and pointed at Sandor. “That is my _enemy,_ Robert. Kill him.”

And the hiss of coals filled his ears once more. _No more games._

The greatsword came down, fast. Sandor managed to deflect it with his shield; the oak splintered. He dodged, barely blocking another slash with the axehaft. Another, again on that side, breaking his useless weapon and catching him a glancing blow on the shoulder. One more like that… he blocked it on his battered shield, which split entirely. _Like I will._ If Cersei didn’t get to another jar of that alchemist’s piss first — and he had no armor now to take the wildfire for him.

But then Brienne was there, saving his arse again. Her strike took the knight’s enameled armor on one of the older cuts, like an axe to a tree, and the monster staggered with the force of the blow. _Like a tree… he’s bigger but I’m faster…_ And Sandor rushed at the _thing_ that once was his brother, knocking him off his feet… into the pile of wildfire pots.

For a moment Sandor was blind and deaf, the virulent light and terrible roar filling his senses. As his sight came back, the noise continued, a howl coming somehow from the headless creature as it writhed in the flames. Sandor stood well back, never taking his eyes from his brother’s body, its armor afire, the enamel cracking, melting. It struggled to rise once, and with one huge thrust the Maid forced Oathkeeper through its heart, pinning it down like a fly to a table. And then there was nothing but burning.

* * *

Through a daze of tiredness and relief Sandor watched as Gregor Clegane, The Mountain That Rides, Ser Robert Strong, knight and monster, was reduced to ashes and slag. He could hear voices behind him — Cersei’s wails, Jaime’s soothing words, men calling for help. It made no matter, he was satisfied.

But seven hells, he ached. He hurt all over, his shield arm felt like lead. And his right arm, a sharper pain there… got cut, didn’t he, have to get that treated. _But at home, let me go home to my…_ Sandor winced. It even hurt to think. The flames were so bright… then they dimmed suddenly, all going dark, and the voices faded. He heard, as from far off, a woman saying, _Clegane? gods… there’s so much blood…_ and he fell.

His last thought was of the girl who loved him…

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a very long time coming, hasn't it? I promised it wasn't abandoned. Sorry, but between work pressures, life, writer's block, etc... well. I'm back, at least, and things should go _much_ faster now.
> 
> For more of those little asides about how Sandor became Cersei's shield, please read my fic [Pay no mind to the distant thunder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/274912).
> 
> Also, the fantastic dotofink/cabepfir/Cecilia Latella has created a beautiful painting of the climax of Chapter 1, and you can see it [here](http://nobodysuspectsthebutterfly.tumblr.com/post/89208044703/dotofink-gift-for-nobodysuspectsthebutterfly-on). It makes me so happy. :)
> 
> And as always, my thanks to Egleriel for allowing me to work with a different view of her wonderful fic!


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